Tale of Success
by BlueMushy
Summary: The rise of District 2, in the experience of its many victors. Starting with Delian, the father of the Careers, and how he rebelled against Critias and the establishment, and how his Careers dominated Games. Love, hate, friendship, enmity, and intrigue are all needed to tell this tale of success. Rated T (so far). OCs.
1. Chapter 1

**Intro:** this story will basically involve OCs, set in District 2 and others when they become relevant. I am planning to make this a three-part story, but it can be extended if people feel like it.

* * *

Delian walked into Critias' house at the appointed hour, with his best possible clothes. That consisted of a plain white shirt and a pair of black jeans, ironed to make them more similar to trousers, mended with cloth of the same colour so the patches do not appear as easily. He walked into the palatial building, amazed at its glitter and "bling factor", as people in the Capitol were rumoured to term this phenomenon. A grand chandelier suspended in the middle of the foyer, and the generous beams of sunshine scattered across its jewels across the room, in an orderly chaos. Delian was attracted to touch many things in the house, but his better senses prevented him from so doing.

He had almost ignored the existence of the butler, who was trying to guide him to the study, where his interviewer was bound to be. Delian had sneaked up to Critias' house before, and he sat at his study almost every day, continuously. He took his meals there and even occasionally slept there, Delian noted. _All this will be mine,_ he thought, _and it's going to be soon, not at a distant date in the future_. Hunger Games fever was burning within District 2, and this man, this victor, held the key to unlocking its wonders.

The butler signaled Delian to stop at the threshold of the study, which was barricaded from the glamour of the main hall with a slender pair of doors. It was oak panelling, he though, with pink marble inlays. _Very stylish_. District 2 does not shout out at you in this house, but you can locate yourself in District 2 if you look at the details. It's almost as though the house had a consciousness, that it didn't want to look like a house in District 2. The servant knocked and heard some response from inside, and he slipped in, closing the door behind him.

The butler came out and looked at him with a neutral expression. He opened both doors, and stood flat against one of the doors.

"Delian Quince, principle," the butler announced.

"Have a seat please, Delian," the victor said, as he poured a small glass for Delian, which he promptly set in front of himself when Delian attempted to take it, "and tell Sherman what you would like to have. After all," he grinned, "not all of us can hold our drink."

Critias was still Critias. It was something of an unspoken insult in District 2 if you implied that someone couldn't drink. Delian was only 17, and the official drinking age was 20, though that hardly stopped anyone. Nobody tried to enforce, and nobody could enforce. People in District 2 didn't have birth certificates, so nobody could say for certain, other than close friends and parents, exactly how old one was. It carried certain benefits, but also faults and consequences were deadly.

Delian ordered what he thought was an appropriate drink: water.

"Mr. Quince," Critias began with a strange emphasis on formality and distance, "I have read a recommendation letter with your name and various terms of coerced flattery on it, and I think I am obliged to give you a formal interview. I admire your persistence, Mr. Quince, but please do not expect too much out of this interview."

Delian's hulky body slumped on the chair.

"I have exacting standards on what makes a good tribute," Critias attempted to explain, not in the least emotionally influenced by the slump, "but, which is more important, on who has the potential to become one. I have been hasty in refusing your direct application a few months ago."

Delian shifted forward again, in anticipation. _Is he going to give me a chance to make things up to me, or does he begin to see potential?_

"I still await to be proven wrong, Mr. Quince," he continued, "and to that end, I will ask you a series of questions or request you to do certain things. If you do not feel comfortable answering any given one, just tell me so, but I tend to prefer more information to less, so you may bear that in mind. Are you ready?"

"Yes, victor," Delian finally spoke with a bright but baritone voice, brimming with excitement and energy, "I am ready, for days."

"Do you smoke?" Critias inquired flatly.

"I…" Delian froze, not certain about what Critias wanted to hear, "from time to time, yes," he scrambled together a response, to face Critias' almost-parental smile.

 _Would that make me sound more mature and manly? That's what they like._

"I am pleased to hear it. All men need an occupation of some kind, and there are far too many idle men in the quarries."

Delian looks on as Critias scribbles down something in an illegible scrawl on his notepad, which he held at an angle to prevent easy discernment. As he furiously writes on, he gradually steepened the angle of the pad, as to conceal his face.

"Who is your mother's father, Mr. Quince?"

"My mother's father is a Terrence," Delian replied thoughtfully, "though I do not know him intimately."

"Does he have a family name?" Critias persisted.

"I think so, but not that I know of."

"Does he have any reliable connections with," Critias paused to sip a mouthful of the golden syrup, "persons of influence?"

"Well, Terrence has…" interrupted Delian, to think of a more refined way of saying someone had died, "has pissed away."

"I gather you mean 'passed' away, if I may suggest such an unfortunate thing?"

"That's the fellow."

Critias closed his eyes and bent his torso upwards, reclining on his chair a little more, though Delian thought it could scarcely be more comfortable, since the back of the chair is fixed.

"Mr. Quince," Critias continued his assault, "do you have any friends in notable positions, or otherwise of distinguished merit, or even public reputation?"

Delian instinctively thought of his best friend, Rhaion. This friend was one whom he could depend on in a question of life and death.

"My best friend is Rhaion," he commented, "he is my best friend ever."

Critias took another deep breath and turned to caugh behind himself.

"Pardon me."

Turning back to the present, he looked around the study and fixed his gaze on a richly decorated porcelain vase on a taek base.

"See that vase over there, Mr. Quince," he finally said, "and that thing it's sitting on. What is that thing called?"

"Wood?"

"What type of wood is it?" acerbically demanded Critias.

Delian suddenly shrinks into his chair, as though taking refuge in its plushness. Delian hadn't expected this to come up. He had expected Critias to ask him to lift big rocks or something that demonstrates his strength, which he has found to be an asset in the quarries and in comparison with the televised tributes. But here was Critias, the victor and principal of the Academy, examining him on the strangest of questions. _Come on Delian, you can't just guess a random type of wood! But you have to! Calm down, Delian. It's a type of wood you've never seen before, so it's not maple, pine, or oak. It's in a victor's house, so it must be exotic._

"Taek?" Chimed in Delian, spitting out the most exotic type of wood known to him.

Critias' expression darkened, as he jotting down on his pad again, which he places on a writing stand so as not to betray its contents by laying it flat on the desk.

"Go pick up that vase," Critias commanded after finishing his notes.

 _Aha! It's going to be easy, as long as there is no water inside._

Delian ejects from his armchair, sprints to the target next to the bay windows, and easily grabs it by its neck and hoists it from the base.

 _It's as light as I thought. It might even by too light._

"With two hands please," Critias corrected, "it's heavy. I don't like cleaning porcelain shards off a carpet."

 _But it isn't heavy! Time to impress!_

"I'm fine, victor. I can lift this vase with just one hand."

"As you will, then," Critias turned away again, caughing heavily, with his hands over mouth, "and balance it on your head."

 _What!?_

"I'll do my best."

Delian obediently raises it by it foot and gently sets it down on the top of his head.

 _Please don't fall._

Standing perfectly still, Delian cautiously led his arms away from the artifact. It doesn't even wobble.

 _Good_.

Critias nodded, probably in approval.

"Take off your clothes, Mr. Quince," Critias spoke with just a hint of a childish dare in his voice.

Delian hesitated, but his hands were soon sliding along his body, to minimize disturbance to the vase, to the top button on the shirt.

"You know, Mr. Quince," Critias explained away casually, "there are times in the arena where decorum must take second place. Most of us have no problem saying that in the shelter of our homes, but in the arena, I have seen this problem impeding the progress of a tribute. The accomplished tribute must be able to perform with only his skin on his body, in front of people he never knew before and intend to defeat by every possible means, as well as on national television."

 _That's perfectly rational._

Delian began the arduous task of unbuttoning his shirt. Normally, this wouldn't be so difficult, but the slightest shift in his body translates to a much bigger movement of the vase on his head. Delian has no problem with only his skin on him, since the quarries are so hot in the summer that he's accustomed to work without a shirt, with all manner of passers-by.

Moreover, several girls have expressed much positivity and affinity about his shape.

"You need not remove your trousers, Mr. Quince, I only need to see what I need to see."

As Delian frees the ninth accursed disk of plastic from the ninth slit in the hemmed shirt, he starts by loosening his arms from the confines of the sleeve.

 _I guess I'll be the attractive type of tribute. Looking good earns you points. Ugh, don't fall!_

But his arms don't come loose from the sleeve. Delian cursed himself under his breath, as Critias, who emitted a concealed yawn, was waiting with mild attentiveness to his form.

 _Don't make him wait! Look, he's yawning! Why isn't my sleeve coming off?_

Delian shakes his arms some more, as Critias rests his head on his hand, supported by the elbow on the desk.

"Your cuffs."

Heeding the instantaneous analysis, Delian was dazed by Critias' attention to detail. He clasped his hands behind himself to get to the cuff buttons, and the vase took another dangerous swivel.

So finally, the shirt relinquishes him, and he stood with a naked chest and abdomen before the victor. For a brief second, Delian is proud of himself. His slightly tan skin glistens in the afternoon sun, giving it an almost ruby like glow, full, rich, and unyielding, and his hair, which was a golden blonde, had excellent albedo. Delian is definitely a looker.

"You need to lose some weight, Mr. Quince," he opined with a puff, "slenderness is in vogue."

The cruel shock nearly caused the vase to fall from his head, and he had to re-balance it by taking a few cuts across the room.

"I… I see."

"Now, I said the accomplished tribute must be able to perform at the highest level without the benefit of clothing. So I'll test your aptitude in that front. Just standing still is not quite enough."

 _Humph. These surely are exacting standards. But I think I scored some points for my immaculate sense of balance._

"Do your best triumphant pose. This is what you'll do when you're declared victor. People need to be able to see you as a victor before you are one; that is how they pick whom they support."

 _So, Critias already has me in mind as a victor! That a dream-come-true thing!_

Delian took a needed and granted moment to think about what his victory pose would be, and he settled on a simple fist in the air, with a firm base, standing squarely on his legs.

"Stay frozen, while I load some film into my camera. I need to capture this, and I think you would look great on any poster. Any publicity is good, and this will stop people in their tracks."

The camera clicked, and the maganese flash flooded the room. It almost set the vase tumbling again, but Delian knew this was too close to the finishing line to allow any imperfection. By his sheer will, he forced it back atop his head.

"Excellent choice, Mr. Quince," Critias adjudicated, "I've seen many a pose involving jumping into the air or rolling on the ground, or any number of combinations of such inordinate extrovertion. You appear strong and confident but grounded on firm earth this way, which is what the audience would like to see. Even though slenderness is in vogue and also an asset in the arena, I think I see potential in a powerful build too."

Delian is overjoyed.

"I know a considerable population of females prefer," he stopped.

Delian suddenly felt vulnerable, as though his laurel was being revoked, rescinded, or somehow diminished.

"Prefer you to their significant others. You see, most victors are tame, pets of the Capitol, and they yearn wildness. Do you have that flare, that uncontainable spirit of a wild animal, Mr. Quince? Are you in possession of the untamable character, of strengh, power, sweat, and raw, natural appeal that so rarely is found in the Capitol?"

"Yes," Delian exclaimed, "I can do all that! I'm your boy, victor, I'll never disappoint!"

 _I'm gonna be a star, and I'm apparently a natural at it!_

"You'll satiate their lust for that wildness, Mr. Quince, you'll do things that I never could. I had their admiration, but you… you'll have their love. Yes," Critias tastefully inserted, holding high his head, and gradually lowering his line of sight, looking his prized tribute from head to toe, "I could see it all now. Delian the magnificent."

Immersed in euphoria, Delian could hardly conceal his overwhelming emotion, which inhibited even his faculty of speech. He eagerly awaits the next instruction.

"Are you a precision dancer or a clumsy dancer?"

"I'm the clumsy type," he blurted out, before he realized something.

 _How can I be clumsy at anything? That isn't what he wants!_

But before Delian has the chance to correct his massive gaffe, Critias affirmed his response.

"Excellent. Dancers who are too precise seem artificial, and your whole appeal is that you're not artificial. You need to know some steps and tunes, but not too many, and certainly not the obscure ones. Leave some room for the ladies to imagine and correct you, because a student is always more charming than a lecturer."

 _Even my missteps are right. Wow. Looks like I'm born to be victor._

Critias hurried to the side wall of the study and pulled down a projection screen. A projector emerges lowering from the ceiling, and a film soon comes on. It's the last Victors' Ball in the Capitol, showing numerous victors dancing to the latest tunes.

"Go on, pick one of them, and copy their steps."

Delian obediently chose his idol, Selenia of District 1, and started imitating her fluent rhythm and lucious body. Meanwhile, Critias returned behind his desk and started writing.

"Come on," he egged on, with a colourful voice, "be one with the music. You must create the rhythm; you must dominate the dance floor like you would in the arena, even if you're a clumsy dancer. Forcefully impose yourself upon the ladies, envelop them in your masculinity, and there we have a success to behold. Don't merely be suggestive, but be aggressive."

As a shirtless Delian spent almost a half hour dancing circularly, terribly out of tune, and making all sorts of sexual innuendoes, sensual firtations, and lustful grasps at the air, all done with a vase on his head and a completely satisfied expression on his face, Critias coldly assesses the amorous teenager.

 _You almost made me feel bad. Just almost, but so very close._

At the end of the day, Critias sends Delian home, even though he didn't disclose the results of the interview, leaving only "you understand my mind". Delian walked home proud and loud, just as Critias observed him with the keeness of a hawk from his balcony. Delian walked down the winding path, across the Square, then out of sight.

Critias turned back into his palatial house, descended the staircase, and walked into his study, and he opened his penholder, which sat silently on the desk. He pulled out the reel containing Delian's footage, and his dark eyes locked onto the film.

"I will make you cry," he mouthed.

Later that night, Critias met with his fellow victors Agason and Clemmy, and the two, known to Critias since childhood, inferred something was going on. Agason didn't like contradicting Critias, however, so he took another approach.

"Critias," Agason mused, "I have a problem."

"If it's your problem, keep it to yourself," he said, pushing a baked broccoli crusted with cheese into his mouth.

"There is considerable disquiet," the visitor elaborated, ignoring Critias, "over the lack of harmony between the various demograhpic groups in this District. These concerns originate from the highest levels."

"If it has nothing to do with the Games, leave me out of it. My only concern is the Games."

"Ah, but it does."

"If it does concern the Games, I've got no reason to listen to you. You severed yourself from its running years ago. You're like the Capitol's ambassador here in District 2; you're their agent. We need someone who thinks and fends for District 2."

Agason sighed, and his worst fears were confirmed. Critias was going to clamp down on the recent uprisings, and there was no way to dissuade him from it. Nobody has managed to dissuade Critias from anything. Even President Narita was more flexible than this.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Delian fights for his chance to volunteer: not against other volunteers, but against the victor that devastated him. Critias, acting out of extreme spite, has disseminated an embarrassing film depicting Delian. Delian pommels Critias the victor with plenty of rebellious spirit during the Reaping Ceremony to get the two things he wants — to get back at Critias and to volunteer for the Games.

It was Reaping Day, the twenty-sixth time its dreaded echoes have resounded in the confines of District 2. Despite having produced three victors, which is better than what half of the districts can boast, the experience was particularly traumatic. For the first twelve editions of the Games, District 2 produced nothing; then, three victors landed in District 2 in succession; after that, nothing again.

Two reaped, and one volunteered. For all three victors, all the working residents of District 2 have expressed their gratitude by giving up a half-day's wage towards an expensive blue cloak, made of the finest furs, coloured with the most premium dyes, and studded with jewels imported from District 1. It was a small price to pay for a significant rise in wages, and it temporarily remitted the tensions between the social classes in the District.

Delian never knew what was the cause of the animosity; he was altogether too young to understand its origins, or the arguments on both sides, but he was old enough to know to take sides.

"Never play with the kids who live on the west side of the Square or on Blue Mound," his parents admonished him, "or they will eat you alive."

Being eaten alive is a sufficient terrifying prospect for Delian, so he accepted these premises without question, for at least the first few years of his life. Then, came the victors, who all lived on Blue Mound. The people of District 2 were originally adverse to the Games, but after realizing that victory in it meant increased wages, they gradually grew to accept it, especially after its better effects were demonstrated by the triple victory in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth games. To Delian, this meant a few more pieces of candy each week.

But the victories stopped after three happy years, and Delian's parents stopped giving him candies. It was also at this juncture that the Games became more competitive. In the fourteenth edition, it was discovered that volunteering was allowed, and the natural development from there is that training of a volunteering was at least not systemically prohibited. With three victors, District 2 was in a premeable position to explore this new dimension of the Games. Soon, the victors, who were remembered as heroes, pooled their resources together, and started what is known as the Academy.

To the quarriers of District 2, the Academy was a symbol of dashed hope. It held all the promise, but it failed to deliver. To the adults, it was to be guarantor of increased wages; to the very young, a source of pieces of candy. With the moments of glory, the honour of the podium, and the lavish life in the Victors' Village, three times demonstrated, many youngsters itched for it. Compared to the squalour of the quarries and the encampment next to it, it was another world, on another pane of existence. Hence, as soon as the Academy was declared operational, there was no lack of applicants to it, even if eventual participation meant almost certain death, and the Academy failed to deliver.

The first face of the Academy was Critias, the last of the three victors of the primodial age. Critias was also the District's first volunteer, and he was the face of disapproval from the Academy. Drooling after the glamour of victory, many quarrying teenagers hiked miles into the centre of town, only to find that there is no such place as the Academy. Perplexed, Delian wandered into the Victors' Village, where Critias, the mythical principal of the Academy, lived. If Critias had denied the existence of the Academy flatly, it would have been less disappointing for Delian: he was told he couldn't join the Academy. He couldn't be the one wearing the blue cloak. He couldn't be the one to bring everybody increased wages. It was still under this condition that the Reaping for the twenty-sixth happened.

"To join," Critias dismissively retorted, "you have to be invited."

"Invited by whom?"

"You'll know when you're invited."

It was perplxing because under the old system, at least everybody had a chance of entering. With the introduction of the new system, it seems like there's something sinister, oligopolistic happening. All the worse, after the Academy was established, the victories stopped. It seemed as though the Academy, which was supposed to bring District 2 prolonged success, was instead the very thing that made the District's luck go sour, but Critias was the owner of the Academy, and one didn't simply challenge Critias. And that was exactly what Delian was going to do this year. Critias had it coming for him.

It isn't pure foolhardiness that motivated Delian to wreck Critias' show on the stage today. The victor had betrayed signs of weakness already, and weakness wasn't a desirable trait to have in District 2, especially in the quarries. If you could carry a 30 kg block, you're better and worth more than someone who could only do 29kg. It's a very plain and utilitarian logic, but it was the order of the quarries. Critias said the vase in his study was heavy and asked Delian to hold it with two hands. There are two possible interpretations: either Critias is not strong enough to hold it with one hand, or he was mocking Delian by implying he couldn't hold it with one hand. Delian sincerely hoped that it was the former, or today might be his last. Delian remembered seeing Critias cutting two wrist arteries in three seconds. The signature move was torrential; you could be alive and well one moment, and after he dashed through, you were dead within a few minutes. It was especially eerie because the corpses betrayed no great leision.

Rhaios smacked Delian out of his trance.

"You sure about this, mate? Critias won't be fucking around. Castor won't be fucking around."

Delian chuckled at the thought of Castor, but shuddered at the thought of the menacing Critias would do everything to defend the candidature of Castor.

"Castor is peanuts. He's thin enough to be a paper airplane, and light enough to fly too. I'll just sort of toss him off the stage… as long as the guy I think is Castor is Castor, and there is only one Castor, and that Castor is the Castor I think is the Castor Critias picked."

"You're not making any sense… no, make sure you do it first thing. Once Critias gets to Castor, it's game over for you," Rhaios intimated.

A long silence ensued, when they were crossing the drawbridge. The dawn was approaching, and they were just on time to go in town.

"How over do you mean when you say game over?" Delian asked his best friend, with a rather morbid tone.

"If Critias sits where he usually does, and you lift yourself on stage, he's going to react within five seconds. Once he gets to you, there's no telling what he does. Fuck, he's victor, he could tear you apart on stage, and the peacekeepers won't bat an eye."

Delian made a sound by creating a vacuum in his mouth and letting air rush in rapidly, as his friend reminded him of another obstacle.

"Shit, peacekeepers. What about them?"

"Well, they could blast you to District 4 with their laser guns."

"The peacekeepers may not do much, but… I don't want to die like that, mate," Delian confessed, forcing a "you know, I complain every day in the quarry, but… there's something attractive about the arena, in a lethal way, I guess."

"And even if you make it to the Games, it's still a one-in-twenty-four thing," Rhaion further analyzed.

"But Critias did _that_ to me. The entire District now regards me, like _that_. I can't just let him off the hook," said Delian, who flashed something in his sleeve.

It's a dagger. Rhaios grabbed onto the arm concealing the dagger and looked the other direction, scanning the locale for any potential observers.

"That's totally a bad idea. If you fought him honourably, you might be let off; if you use a dagger on him … yeah… murder becomes rebellion," Rhaios mustered something on his face that couldn't be recognized as a grin.

Delian didn't say a thing more before giving the dagger to his friend. Rhaios and Delian go way back, and you don't give incriminating evidence to anyone but your most trusted in District 2.

"Besides, if you do toss Castor off, what's to stop someone tossing you off?"

"Well," Delian flashed his grin instead, "there's only so much you can hope for at one time. I want Critias, even if it's just one punch. I'll make it count. I'll make it hurt," Delian growled, balling his fist in front of him.

Fights were not uncommon where Delian grew up. It's the unruly part of District 2, where the government only ever asked if they were producing their quota. They didn't care about the crime rate or the working conditions. Unfortunately, the unruly part was most of District 2, and law and order were a privilege of the town. To survive in the quarry encampment, a decent reputation for propensity towards violence is needed — infamy, in fact. As fashion statements changed in the Capitol, new quarries had to be founded to export the desired stones. Encampments were set up by the quarries, and families lived in tents, in the sweltering heat of summer and the penetrating frost of winter. The men's job was exhausting, and the women's keep was demeaning. Boys were inducted into the quarries as young as 12.

The town was in sight, and the morning fog was lifting. Except for the few rows of houses in town, there were no real streets in District 2. In the encampment, tents were pitched wherever their owners felt suitable, and it seemed the houses share the same ethic. The square is a massive public edifice, covered in gravel. The gravel was made out of waste stones that the Capitol didn't want, which were split and crushed to pave the spaces between houses. Instead of cleaning the streets, the government simply paved new gravel; however, since gravel doesn't wear out easily, the road surfaces grew higher yearly, and by now some houses were half buried in gravel.

Delian and Rhaios stepped into the Square, which had a centre area closed off, reserved for the subjects of the Reaping. It was divided lengthwise into two halves, the boys on the left, and girls on the right, with an avenue in between. Ropes served as the divisors for the age groups. In District 2, the oldest stood in front, and the youngest at the back. Unlike in other districts, peacekeepers could sometimes be seen with their helmets off, inviting salutations from their friends or relatives. It was rare that a peacekeeper rotated into District 2, so they valued the opportunity to interact with their estranged family and friends. For the Reaping, however, their helmets were uniformly on and visors down, since they'd be televised.

The 18-year-old section was almost directly adjoining the scaffolding of the stage, with the front row simply plastering their faces against the black fabric that concealed the skeleton of the scaffolding. Delian joined the front row and tested his reach. He reached the edge of the stage easily, but he couldn't hoist himself up just now or test that reach. While this was a good position on which to jump up, it's a bad position because he couldn't see what's going on on the stage. Appraising his proximity, he knew most of the boys in the same age group, and several girls too. He didn't tell his plans to the girls though, since they couldn't be trusted with secrets. It seemed to Delian all girls did was talk all day, and when they ran out of subjects, there go secrets. Misogyny runs deep in many families, and it's especially apparent in Delian's heritage, since he has no female siblings. Even though Delian would never call a girl a "fucktoy", that's what he thought and how he treated his female friends. The quarries were a very masculine place, and a very primal definition of masculinity was rewarded. Any deviation from that was punished ruthlessly, not by quarry management, but by peers.

It's out of this perverted sense of humour that they came up with an intolerable jingle that haunted Delian. It made Delian's life exceedingly miserable. It wouldn't go away. Every shift, when he came into the changing rooms and showers, this jingle is bound to be there. It was so terrible that Delian went four days without showering, but ultimately the complaints from his own family forced him to face the humiliation again.

 _Delian dancing with his lady fair,_

 _So fair she's made out of air._

 _Delian wearing his flowery hat,_

 _So flowery that it was a vat._

His masculinity had taken such a hit, beating up his coworkers won't help. He's taken out eight or nine others who led the chorus, bloodying their faces or choking them until they almost died, but one down, one more takes his place. He has to beat up someone special, like a victor, or, better still, the very victor who invented all this trouble out of thin air.

 _Delian dancing…_

"Fucking stop!" he bellowed, just as the mayor was about to start reading the Treaty. The sheer volume of his voice surprised the mayor, but he just ignored Delian, a lowly quarry boy. He didn't even want to see who was reciting it this time. Even the girls had the nerve to sing this dastardly rhyme, and Delian taught her something she would never forget. She stepped out of line. She deserved the punishment. She deserved to have it shoved down her throat, in public.

The Treaty went as quickly as it came. The mayor must be quick, since it was over under 20 minutes. The District did not need to be reminded of the Treaty. Trying very hard to look straight upwards, Delian spotted a new escort. Pity that old escort, who scored District 2 just after the triple victors, thinking she couldn't have found a better district. She led the District threw ten starving years. It's now time to present the previous victors.

There's Agason, the very first victor. Agason seems so detached from reality, for some reason that eludes the grasp of Delian's capacity for reason. Clemmy was somewhat better, but she's still not one of us. Both spoke with a foreign accent. The word "hunger" sounded like "hung-guh" when Agason said it, and some of the boys chuckled at that, because it resembled something naughty. Dirty jokes were a necessary victual in the monotony of the work in the quarry. Not only did the boys take refuge in them, so did the men.

"…and to conclude my message," he said with perfect pedantry, "I exhort you to maintain faith in the Capitol and their boundless gifts, and to make all necessary sacrifices, for the good of the entire nation. I am merely a humble pursuer of that lofty idea, and at all times we may find instances where we all fight for and enjoy victory, sometimes great, sometimes small, but victory one and the same."

Agason's speech was simply stifling, and it seems he recycles his speeches. Same message, just re-arranged paragraphs. He didn't even bother correcting the grammatical mistakes. Clemmy speech was marginally more tolerable just because she's a woman, and from Delian's position, her profile was easily appreciable. Clemmy makes liberal refereces to passages in Agason's speech, and there's an unmistakable impression that the two of them prepared their speeches together, which makes perfect sense, since they're married to each other.

Now, it's Critias' turn. After what he did, listening to Critias speaking makes Delian seathe with wrath.

"I wish to declare my faithful loyalty to the Capitol and pledge my service to this District. To put everything in a nutshell, District 2 will continue to fight for the Capitol and bravely answer the call for peace, and, as I am sure, our tributes this year to the Games will fight for their District with the highest honour and the most impeccable prudence."

After a good two hours after the start of the Ceremony, the national anthem is played again, as the escort takes centre stage.

"And now," she shrieked, "for you District 2 tributes. Ladies first."

She marched over to the balls before the females in such an increcible gait, it certainly was meant to mask her uncertainty about the future of the District. She sank her hand into the glass ball and, in concordance with the newest trends, wades her palm in the sea of potential tributes. She finally picks the slip of choice, but not that it mattered. Critias has a volunteer chosen; none whosoever other than the volunteer herself knew who was volunteering.

 _This doesn't happen in District 1, so why here? They got a couple of victors._

The volunteer was a girl by the name of Cynthia, and Delian couldn't believe his eyes. She is decidedly unremarkable. There are prettier people around. There are stronger people around. There seemed to be smarter people around as well.

 _Things that don't make any sense_

Next up, boys.

"Rhaion Tier," exclaimed the escort, "do we have a Rhaion Tier?"

A jolt of electricity crackled in Delian, but soon he realized that there's a volunteer, who promptly pats Rhaion on his shoulders and waves upstage, all with his head hung, almost as though he was saying, "just get this over with". The entire ceremony had a putrid lack of energy, with involuntary volunteers and bad speakers.

"Your names?" asked the escort.

"Cynthia," recited the girl mechanically.

"Castor," surrendered the boy.

"Well," the escort concluded, "there you have it! Your District 2 tributes, Cynthia and Astor!"

Then there surfaced an expression of pure disgust on Castor's face, presumably for mispronouncing his name. He tried to whisper to the escort that his name began with a consonant, but the escort couldn't get the right consonant.

Before the escort asked the pair to say a few words, I knew I had a destiny to stop this tragedy. I took a deep breath, and lunged forth for the stage, latched my hands onto the edge of the stage, and flung myself up. This is how I moved in the quarries, how I moved from boulder to boulder. The podium at 10 o'clock. Escort and two tributes behind podium. Critias to the far left. Mayor next to Critias. No peacekeepers on stage. It could hardly be better.

I sprint forth in a split second and seized Castor. He's not quite light enough to be a piece of paper, but not heavy enough to trouble my arms. He's akin to two blocks, and I could move three or four. I dragged him by his collars to the edge of the stage, and shoved him down. There was still no reaction from anybody, so I walk with purpose in mind to the podium, grabbing the microphone, announcing myself.

"I'm the actual volunteer, my name is Delian, nice to meet you all. So, yeah," I said something that I wouldn't regret to be my last words.

Still no reaction, that is until I noticed Critias is missing. I thought about this, whether I should duck or take the blow like a man. I scrunched my eyes together in anticipation for one that would knock me out cold, or even worse, punch through me. It's something you expect from Critias. He doesn't fuck around. You don't win the Games by fucking around. You don't get the highest training score in history by fucking around. I am taking the blow, and, surely enough, it came.

 _You really had to use two hands to lift that vase, right?_

"That all you got, Critias?" I sneered through my nose, and I was feeling incredibly empowered, "because, I've got a lot more coming for you."

For some reason, I didn't feel the need to shout those two statements. I am in control now. I make the decisions. I love this feeling.

I opened my eyes to see Critias panting, almost like he's got a case of asthma.

 _You almost made me feel bad. Just almost, but so very close._

I readied myself, and Critias seemed too stunned to follow up with another punch. I adopted a wider stance to transfer mass, and I followed through with my fist. I felt my blow connect with Critias' flesh and skeleton. And, seconds later, he's flying. It felt fucking good.

Critias then regained his footing and sprang up, and I was momentarily feeling baffled. None of my mates could spring back up after taking a punch from me, and this was an unfamiliar situation. But fuck fear, because I'm already fightin him. I've punched him. There's no way back. Critias may not have a powerful punch, but he has swift, sharp punches, with very little pull-back to forewarn us of the volley, and they're hard to fend off. He always lands punches, and he's dodging my punches well. He's pushing me back, and his face still radiated confidence. Those uppercuts! Using a quick movement with his left foot, he somehow trips me and has me floored. His fluffy blue cloak was ruffling my face, and he was holding my neck. I'm running out of tricks. Was all my upbringing in the quarries not enough to last half a minute against this victor?

Then, I remembered.

 _Delian virtually sang his way back home, and he couldn't wait to tell the news to his friends at work. He was ready to be the District's hero, when he was suddenly confronted by his friend Rhaion._

 _"Hey man, I feel so sorry for you. Whatever did Critias do to you?"_

 _Delian was confounded._

 _"Man, you live under a rock? Look at the television sets. There's you!"_

 _Delian saw a shirtless Delian spent almost a half hour dancing circularly, terribly out of tune, and making all sorts of sexual innuendoes, sensual firtations, and lustful grasps at the air, all done with a vase on his head and a completely satisfied expression on his face._

 _For the rest of the month, people placed traffic cones, dildos, and other objects of their heads to mock Delian._

With all that hatred rushing back into me, I sat up with a roar and ripped Critias off me like I flick off a bug. He landed on his back again, and I leaped and landed on him. I held his arms down, and this is the end. He has no escape. I'm too heavy for him. He's pinned. He can't dodge anymore. What usually follows in the quarry is a flurry of punches and more punches.

"Clemmy!" he shouted.

Clemmy rushed forward, but she wasn't sure what to do with me. It's natural, really; most girls I've seen don't know how to handle someone like me in a rage. Clemmy is quite human, after all.

"Kick him in the fucking balls!" instructed Critias, who correctly identified my only weakness. But fuck, it takes two victors to take down a single 18-year-old? I'm making history. I'll take on Clemmy. I turned behind me and saw the bewildered Clemmy, and I said something I reserve for the sluttiest bitches. I hate to bring Clemmy into this, since she had no part, but she's a victor too. I hate victors, for today.

"You want my balls so bad? Well you can have my balls, my fucking balls in your fucking mouth!"

Did that just repulse Clemmy? Because I don't see her anymore. She's rushing from the scene. A single line to send a victor fleeing, another achievement. There's just one more. Yeah, I'm taking down all the victors today. None of them escape today.

"Agason! Dare you come save your little —!"

Something hit my head hard, but not hard enough to stop my glare that digs holes into Critias. Agason had torn the wooden podium off its bolts and smashed it on me, but that wasn't even close to the amount of force that would dissuade me from punching Critias even more. Then, Agason tried to pry me from Critias.

 _Not good enough, buddy. You think you can lift a 220-pound quarry kid up from his sworn enemy? You think you can somehow do that just because you hid in a tree for the entire duration of the Games and have a fancy hat on your head and District 1 clothes on your body?_

"Cynthia! Escort Cleopatra! Come help Critias up!" yelled Agason desperately at the idle bystanders.

"I am not touching that person," said the escort, shying away from me in abject terror.

Still punching Critias in the face, while laughing. It was starting to get bloody addicting.

"Critias, just let him," Agason suggested in a futile attempt to restore the peace.

"N…no!" Critias replied between punches, "my choice was Castor! And you… elected me principal…"

"Principal… Is that you? Critias," I muttered, "if so you're a fucking horrible principal."

"Castor!" he demanded, "come up… and go with the escort… I'll deal with this madness myself…" he said, as I punched his forehead against the hard floor.

"Escort Cleopatra," Agason stepped away to address the terrified escort, "please call the Capitol if Castor may be released and another volunteer substituted."

I finally stopped the merciless punching, but I still sat flat on Critias. He's done. I barely heard the escort on the phone.

"Yes, head game maker," she spoke into the receiver, "yes, I understand."

She whispered something to Agason, who came over to me and told me I can go. Then she said something about the ceremony being over. Ceremony.

 _You dangle something in front of me, it's mine. You don't get to snatch it away like that. That's not how things are done here._

Peacekeepers approaching, alert. They didn't do anything to me. They couldn't. I'm now their tribute, and tributes are precious. Tributes are more precious than victors, because there can only ever be two tributes, and there are three victors on stage. They just asked me to stand up, with a stretcher in hand ostensibly for Critias.

But my victory is yet incomplete today. He completely humiliated me. I will humiliate him, which is pretty much done, and I'll take something dear away from him. Critias was close to passing out at this point, so I picked up his shoulders and smashed his head against the stage. _Come on, victor. I just want a little something from you. Something that would make you cry, that's all._

Critias' matte black hair was drenched in sweat and blood at this point, after such exertion and having taken an inhumane beating. It left a messy impression of the contours of his head on the stage.

"Are you…" Critias rasped, "trying to kill me?"

"No. I want you to suffer the same infamy, only worse, that you made me suffer," said I, "and the longer you live, the better."

I think I made a wise decision, because the peacekeepers would be forced to do something if I actually tried to kill Critias. He's still not hurting enough, and somewhere in his dark eyes, I still see determination glimmering. Victors don't bow down easily, even when they're powerless to resist. That's when I realized that I haven't completely humiliated him yet.

"Fuck this," I rubbed in his face, "you're going through the same thing that I did. It's only fair, right?"

I stood up tall to look more menacing, while keeping a foot on his windpipe. He didn't need to be held in place now, and his body's close to being limp.

 _He's just biding his time, waiting for you to lose steam._

So I picked him up by his collar, and I'm thankful that I'm tall enough to do it like nabbing a kitten at its neck, then I ripped his cloak off and tossed it in the blood in disgrace. I snatched the cone from behind me and handed it to him.

"You know what to do."

"You want me to wear this cone like an idiot in front of all these people?"

"Yeah, I do. I wanted to see you in pain, and you're probably now in a lot of pain, so that's good. Now, you're going to suffer some shame."

He didn't even want to look back at me and quickly put the cone up on his head.

"Satisfied?" He demanded swiftly.

"No, I'm so not satisfied, and you don't get to call the shots. You're just an asshole. If you don't do as I say, I can punch you until the cows come home in District 10."

Even if I can't see his face from behind, I knew what he was doing. He's surveying the atmosphere. He's assessing the situation. He's looking if anybody will come to assistance, and if there aren't, he'd just bite the bullet and pick his best option. That's Critias, the pragmatic victor.

"Now dance! And take your shirt off while you're at it."

Critias finds no support in the District, and not even his fellow victors are stepping in to help him. And so, he unbuttons his shirt button by button and did a quick number at the edge of the stage. I was somewhat afraid of his finding sympathy with the kids below the stage, but luckily, he found none. Instead, he found the District laughing away at him, just as they had laughed at me.

"What… do you want… now?"

"I want to punch a hole in your perfect face," I answered.

I picked up his cloak, wrapped the luxurious fabric over his bloodied face, and dragged him to the edge of the stage. There, I teased him by letting him drop a little and pulling him back up.

"No…no…no…" he said from behind the cloak, "don't drop me off… haven't you done enough already!?"

"And what do you say when you're asking for a favour? Were you raised in a barn?"

"Please don't drop me off…" he said unemotionally.

"Yeah… like you won't let my join the academy, I won't not drop you off."

I am not in a mood for mercy today, so I gave him my best punch. He flew off the stage, emitting a loud scream, and made a satisfying thump when he landed. That felt fucking good. That sounded fucking good. It's the first time I remembered he ever showed that he couldn't take the pain. I had broken him.

"Well done," Agason, who hasn't done a single thing to help his fellow victor, said, "so well done. You just beat your own mentor to a pulp before you step into the most dangerous place in the world."

Finally, I turned to face the escort and my fellow tribute Cynthia, both of whom had faces drained of colour, as though I'm a monster or something. I looked at the girl, and she avoided my gaze. Maybe I stared instead of just looked at her.

"Agason," I clamoured, and he stopped without turning back, "can I have you as mentor instead?"

"No," he said, in a snide imitation of my accent, "you get Critias, if he lives. If not, you get nothing."

What was Agason trying to say?

"With you, it's like we're back to zero victors again."

I don't get it.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm not sure if there's a coherent story left at this point. Chapter gives exposition to the mentors' experience on the train and Remake Centre. There will be plenty of speech as I attempt to convey their feelings through their own words, adding as little as possible with narrative.

* * *

Summary: the mentors discuss how they will proceed with their rogue volunteer, who is not as tough as he looks. Encounter with guest star District 12 victor Poke. Problems with other districts' tributes.

* * *

Academy Motto: _If you can meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same._

"Delian," Agason asks, "you must tell me honestly, why you did what you did."

Delian has lost that adrenaline rush that kept him going on stage, especially once he boarded the train, which had air conditioning. He couldn't sit still on the chairs. The sheer comfort and luxury was creeping under his skin. To get more of a response out of him, Agason cornered him in a lavatory, and tried to give him a sense of comfort by re-introducing some dependable authority in Delian. It proved a difficult task, since it was Delian who utterly dwarfed him in the cramped space of the lavatory, and Agason's reprisals on stage had gone to futility.

"I honestly have no idea now. My objective was to get Critias, as for the volunteering part, ugh. I can only say, I wanted to participate in the Games, without really considering the more probably outcome. I just focused on the other outcome."

Agason considers this for a moment.

"Does Critias still hate my guts?"

"Yes, he does, but you needn't worry about that. He heeds his call of duty, and now his duty is to help bring you home. But for now, answer me: why did you volunteer?"

"It's a long story," said Delian, his blue eyes flashing from side to side rapidly.

"We have time," replied Agason.

Delian emitted a sigh, and his hands were holding onto the railing inside the lavatory like a vice, candidly telling Agason that he hasn't any experience in travel. He's a local.

"You know, when I was just a kid," he began patiently, "you, Clemmy, and Critias came back victors. I would have called you a hero, but my parents didn't want me to."

"Indeed? Why not? Not that I want to be called a hero, but why not?"

"I am from the quarries, victor. My parents were my only influence as a kid, and my friends' parents had similar opinions. They told me never to associate with people who lived on the west side of the Square, and on the Blue Mound."

"And how did you know I lived on the Blue Mound?"

"That's one of the questions I asked of my father, and he said you could recognize them by their black hair. It's kind of silly, I know, people dye their hair all the time," he hesitated, but continued, "and my parents aren't, like, important or knowledgeable people, so please don't blame them for their view of the matter."

"I knew this was going to happen," uttered Agason the victor, "and why do you think your parents hate us so much?"

"They never told me. They said it in such a way that it sounded very natural, like an obvious fact. They don't think you're one of them."

"But…"

"But at the same time," Delian added, "you were also responsible for the good times that we had after the thirteenth games and before the sixteenth. I guess it's a lot of conflict, for them. Most of District 2 is very close knit, and we knew our neighbours as our colleagues and friends."

"What about you, Delian? What do you think?"

"Victor, I respect you very much, and I am very grateful for the benefits that you brought to us."

"Fuck," Agason said, "Delian, I am 31 years old. I spent 27 of those years in District 2. Clemmy is 30, and she spent 28 of those years here; she was here before she could read or write her own name. Critias… he was born right here. Isn't that enough to make us one of you?"

"It's really not my place to comment, but it's not just where you live. It's your way of life. You own the mayorship and the civil service. You have the top peacekeeper positions. You're the managers in the quarries. It's like when the Capitol gives anything to District 2, you get the choicest bulk of it, and we just get the leftovers."

"Those are social problems that society will correct. But what's your grudge against Castor?"

"Well, I watch the Games. From the days when District 7 dominated till now, it's hard to picture a twig like Castor winning. I just thought he wasn't the best choice. You saw the victors in District 7, and they're big and strong. Like quarriers here, but you never seem to choose us."

"Castor can use a sword and whip up a furious tornado with it. Can you do the same?"

"Well, no."

"Castor can identify hundreds of species of flora and fauna and give their respective uses. Can you do that?"

"No."

"Well… you do have one redeeming quality."

"Really?"

"You fought tooth and nail to enter the Games even though it means you'll most likely die. Castor didn't want to volunteer. You do. You're the one with the will to win, and when you smacked Critias down, I saw it."

"Castor didn't want to volunteer?"

"He… he was basically forced to volunteer, so he's not technically a volunteer. Critias just thinks he has the best odds of winning, that's all."

The sound of the bogies battering track junctions became rhythmic and soothing.

* * *

"Are they all on their way?" required the aging President, lounging in a chair carved out of a solid block of marble. It looked as though it had padding, but the cushions were merely other types of stones, and somehow the President finds comfort in such a hard surface.

"Yes, Excellency," the head game maker replied dutifully.

"About that bit with Critias getting," he chortled, "getting beaten to a pulp, I'm afraid we're just going to have to reserve the fun for ourselves. Where did the feed cut off?"

"Sir, per your instructions, we cut the feed off after Delian declared his candidature, and resumed after Delian walked with escort Cleopatra into the Justice Building."

"Yes indeed," the President smiled, "ah well. I don't think we can let Panem see that, no no no, too dangerous politically! The restive rebels in the ruins might think District 2 was starting something."

"Sir," an advisor stepped forth from the line of servants, back flat against the wall, "I think something needs to be done about Delian. He is too rebellious for the good of the government."

"What do you propose?"

"The upcoming Games are an excellent opportunity for us to dispose of potential ringleaders, Sir."

"Ophthalmologist!" summoned the President, "Immediately make Mr. Snow a new pair of spectacles. He's seeing things that are not there, yet again."

The young man rushed forwards, standing apologetically in front of the aging President. He opened his mouth as though wishing to speak, but the President silenced him with a gesture of the hand. The President barely reclined into his stoney chair.

"Mr. Snow," the President broke the silence, "how do you feel like serving as mayor in District 2 for a few months or a year?"

Snow was alarmed. Was this a promotion or a demotion? The President's principal secretaries and the mayors were technically equal in status, but as the most senior principal secretary, Snow felt threatened. Did the President approve of his plans by sending him to District 2 to implement them? Or was he tired of his presence here?

"I am ready to accept any position you may give me, Sir."

"Answer my question!" ordered the President imperiously.

Beads of sweat was falling from the young man's forehead, facing his most severe challenge in the President's court yet.

"Yes," he stammered, just choosing "I think it is a good position."

"Huh, I never actually offered you the position, but it appears you like District 2 more than you like being around me, I see. Attendants! Take rebel Snow away!"

"No, sir, I have no conspiracies against you or the government! I beg you…" he blurted in panic, his hands flailing in the air, "give me another chance to prove my innocence!"

"Very well then, how else would you answer my question?"

"I very much appreciate your offer to send me to District 2," Snow replied with renewed etiquette, "but I prefer my present position!"

"That means you think I am just out of my mind for offering you District 2? Take rebel Snow away!"

"I beseech and implore you, sir," Snow spouted, refusing to exit the chamber as attendants have politely suggested, "my loyalty is true. I have not betrayed you or have any reason to betray you… please, sir, your confidence in me is not misplaced! Don't send me to the prison…"

The President slowly arose with much assistance of his cane.

"I was about to say take you away to somewhere you can correct your vision, Mr. Snow. You do me wrong. Now, I want to hear no more of your appeals for mercy, Mr. Snow, because you obviously have no idea what you're talking about. The subject of their little escapade here is Critias, and Critias is neither a mayor nor an escort, not even a peacekeeper. As such, I see no reason why it is an act of rebellion. If Critias is offended so much, he can deal with the tribute himself. As for the peacekeepers' inaction, I believe appropriate disciplinary actions have been considered by the District 2 government. Are we understood?"

* * *

As District 2 had three mentors this year, the two male mentors were forced to share one room, and the relationship between them was not any more relaxed than that between Critias and Delian. Clemmy had the privilege of claiming the female tribute, according to the rule with tribute-mentor pairings.

"There's a rumour around the Capitol," Agason started, speaking to the nearest wall of the carriage, without so much as opening his eyes, "about the recall. You know, passage of time caused it."

Critias attempted to conceal his alertness to the situation, but failed by a long shot, causing a rustle in his sheets.

"You do realize that Delian is sleeping on the carriage floor, do you? In his own room, indeed, but what we say to each other could easily be spied on. The poor kid doesn't know there's such a thing as a bed."

Critias was talking about his mentee as though he's a mortal enemy.

"Trust me," Agason replied, "if the vibrations of the carriage don't drive him awake, then nothing will."

Critias spun around in his bed like a treadle, his eyes gleaming in the dark, looking at Agason's beblanketed back.

"Well, hasn't the rumour been around every single year?"

"I know that, but this year there have been developments," Agason explained, not turning to replicate Critias' sharp glare, "you know, how it's always been 'will not be permitted', but this year, it's 'cannot be permitted'."

"I don't need or want that option," Critias said in a very low voice, to the point of becoming unclear, "District 2 is the only place I'll ever need."

"Where you live is your business, Critias," Agason rejoined rather harshly, "but think about its implications. This suggests a more apologetic attitude towards us," Agason ventured.

"…towards me," he corrected himself, "and my family, and all these families. I mean, not that it matters in the short term, but what does this suggest about the attitude of the Capitol towards District 2?"

"Are you going to stop positing rhetorical questions and start answering them?"

That finally set the icy Agason on fire, but the strength of the fire was only enough to turn him to face Critias.

"Critias," Agason attempted an explanation, "I'm only saying that we may be on the verge of a major transition in the Capitol."

"What appraise that?"

"Whom would you credit for your victory? How does that compare to the factors of, say, Aquarius?"

"I credit myself."

"Yes, of course, don't misunderstand me, but whom aside from yourself?"

"You're not on the list."

"Aside from me."

Critias was, for the third time today, visibly enraged. The conditions were too tepid for his sweat and the rose in his cheeks to be natural.

"Aquarius lost because he lost his calm, and the same goes for Rena, by and large. They shouldn't have dropped down from the tree."

"Who gave you the headlight sword, Critias?"

"I would have won without it anyway."

"You're the one who knows your game best, Critias, but we're serving Cynthia and Delian this trip, not your bloated ego."

"It was a privilege for them to serve a twelve tribute," he replied with such conviction and finality, Agason thought it senseless to mount another reply, until something struck him.

"Don't you get it? They're ready to accept a District 2 without us."

* * *

 _A woman in a glittering velvet dress was tearing her picture-perfect hair out, whole wads of it, in an audience chamber. Her heels had bent out of shape in the stampede, and her handbag was long lost to the chaos. Tears streamed from her eyes. Her mascara was a lost cause. At the centre of the hall sat her own, only son, on a chair with a tall back. She was screaming at the top of her voice at a middle-aged man in a pearl white frock coat._

 _"This is all your fault," she yelled, her fists clentched as tightly as she knew how, "all, all your fault. 'More fresh air', 'better views', 'more square footage', my foot! It's cowardise, Icarus, your ignoble, ignonimous cowardise."_

 _"Agason, my son," the father, frightened out of his mind, said, with trembling lips, making his words hard to understand, "I have… I have failed you. Your mother is completely right… I am a coward," he affirmed, with a sniffle. The dark-haired mother grabbed the meanest cushion she could find in the room and smacked the hapless man across his head with it, and she hated it wasn't made out of stone._

 _"That accursed place, those demented people," Agason chastised, "and now this. What am I to do?"_

 _A silence fell like a pall._

 _"Have not I saved enough people to deserve some peace for my family," bellowed the Surgeon-general, apparently at no-one in particular, his syllables joined together by his rapidly deteriorating emotional state._

 _"Agason," the female parent added, "I can't tell you how sorry I am. We promised you that we would return home soon, once it was all over; then your father," she paused to glare at him, who was looking nowhere but the ground, "your brilliant father insisted on staying in District 2 because it had better air, and now you're going home…"_

 _She started sobbing uncontrollably._

 _"Going home… to be your friends' and neighbours' pawn…" she finally uttered the worst possible assessment of the situation, then collapsing into a miserable pile of tears._

 _Agason's father felt no need or ability to defend himself against these charges._

 _"There… there must be something we can do, hmm," the eighteen-year-old muttered, "I mean, people get donations in the Games, donate… donate me… something."_

 _"Anything you like Agason, absolutely anything. In fact," he said, with a seemingly unwarranted twist on his face, "tell me something I can give you now, Agason, anything you like."_

 _He tried lifting his head up to see his child's face, but as soon as his visual focus ventured to Agason's soft, gentle nave, he couldn't bear continue to look at his eyes._

 _"You… you said, my dear Agason," the doctor scrambled, "you'd always like a peacekeeper's helmet! Ah yes… yes… we have a few here!" he exclaimed, seeing a few peacekeepers in the room._

 _He bolted towards one and plucked a helmet off, despite the peacekeeper's virulent protest, then pushed it on Agason's head; Agason tried to decline this inopportune gift, but soon it was fully seated._

 _"Stop, father," Agason said from inside the helmet, "they would never let me bring this in. I mean when I get in… write Aunt Augusta… she could help."_

 _"Aunt Augusta… Augusta… she hates you, Agason. Aunt Augusta thinks you're too noisy and wet your linens too much… she might not," Icarus confessed._

 _"She may hate me but she still remembers me, and you never let someone you remember die… oh my…" Agason stopped, as though he remembered something dreadful, "die? District 7!"_

 _"District 7? No. Not District 7. I… I forbid it." also piped his father Icarus, who fell backwards with a loud thud as his cranium crackled on the marble floor._

 _"They're not humans, papa, they're… they're monster, axe-wielding monsters, who cut people in half and quarters and eighths and sixteenths… I'm not doing this, I need to go home and sleep, this… this is too insane," the tribute babbled, as what remained of his strength and dignity also deserted him._

* * *

For the rest of the train ride, Critias found no cause to speak with his tribute, while the tribute saw little reason to converse with his mentor. The envelope couldn't contain the barrier in the room, as the saccharine politeness amongst the victors and between the tributes continually reminded. Cynthia refused to associate herself with the partner, but Delian did not see fit to force himself on Cynthia, which he would have done fairly regularly if someone as delicate as Cynthia frequented the quarries.

"Maple!" Agason beckoned, in salutation to an approaching District 7 mentor, cocking his head to one side.

They were at the Remake Centre, where Delian and Cynthia are being worked on. Cynthia was the designated volunteer, so none of this is coming as a surprise for her; Delian was reacting very tensely, however. It was clear to the mentors by now Delian could put up an incredible fight and show, after he demonstrated that on stage, but he wasn't always up for a fight. That wasn't good news, as a fight could be required at any time in the arena.

It's no secret that Delian was unfamiliar with the stylists, who, on the one hand, were captivated by his physique, and on the other hand, exasperated with his fear of females touching him.

The District 7 mentor, a giant of a man, heeded his name only slowly. Despite all being veterans of the Games, there was still a lingering competition amongst the districts for who has the most victories: for victors, it's the only thing left to compete, and wholly in a direction desired by the Capitol. District 7 has produced 6 victors within the space of 18 years, for a record of 1/3, the envy of Panem. The game makers have, however, sought to curb the runaway success with District 7 lately, either confounding them with a conspicuous lack of axes or other similar timber-related weapons or providing them but made them nearly unusable as hacking tools, as a device of humour. Agason distinctly remembered one time when a District 7 tribute bringing down his massive axe on a distraught girl from his own District, but the head flew off. The axe's head. By the time Maple had won, District 7 tributes were colloquially called executioners, and there's no lack of District 2 tributes dying at their hands, beaten to a lifeless lump of flesh, then having their heads severed in one clean stroke. It was public relations gold. Posters of those scenes are everywhere.

After all, nobody would use pickaxes, saws, mallets, and chisels as weapons, right?

"Aga! Long time, long time. You're mentor again?"

"No, I'm just a tag-along. Well, who's your boy this year?"

"Ha! Knock your knickers off, Aga. Meet Drake," he gleefully introduced; the person being introduced gradually eclipsed Agason at a stately pace, but it only made him more menacing, especially in a nearly nude state.

Tactfully, with two hands extended in front of his chest, he backed off slowly, until he glided by the cubicle in which Delian was screaming molestation. Soon, Drake pressed pass the same door, a little perplexed why the victor was backing away.

"Thanks, Maple," Agason yelled with forced casualness, "let's see the girl instead!"

* * *

The trio sojourned at a pitstop in the Remake Centre, ordering a few drinks that the waitresses, who obviously were volunteers who wanted to get autographs, served with the utmost retardation.

Critias brightened up just enough so his fellow mentors noticed.

"Ha, I have placed Delian under strict injunction not to _resist_ ," he said gleefully, almost as though he vindicated himself somehow, "and now I can sit back in ease and listen to his screaming, while the artists do their _worst_ on him."

"You're not like this usually, Critias," Clemmy questioned, her mouth crammed to one side.

"Oh no?" he replied whimsically.

"You know, he's a blast to talk to, that Delian. He's nice enough if you'd only…"

"Nice," he screamed, completely forsaking his reputation for calm and collectedness, slamming the table so hard that Agason's coffee cup jumped and landed on his lap, scalding him at an inconvenient place.

Critias glared at his two predecessors so hard, that both were searching fervently for new conversation partners.

A piercing scream reverberated across the awkward silence that Critias created, sending a familiar figure into the patio across diagonally from the Remake Centre's ground level.

"Agason! Your tribute is screaming uncontrollably in his stall; would you just shut him up? He's fucking scary, and that noise!" He chimed in with a wide grin on his face. There was something at the edge of his lips that cast doubt on the authenticity of the grin, but nobody likes to doubt Poke.

It was Poke, the District 12 victor. Both Clemmy and Agason welcomed his intrusion, if not for terminating the awkward glare from Critias, but for the fact that he was one of the most pleasant victors around, as long as he isn't annoyed. If Poke was getting annoyed, you know something's terribly wrong; and if Poke was getting annoyed, something _is going to be even more terribly wrong_.

"Sorry," Agason replied with his arms folded and eyes shut, politely declining Poke's charge, "not my tribute."

"Seriously, either he's gonna kill someone with the way he's screaming, or someone is going to butcher him with their bare hands!"

Silence.

"Clemmy," he tried a different approach to be heard, taking a few strides to circle the trio, using a more soothing but still disturbed voice, "as each second passes, it is becoming more and more likely that I'll be that person butchering your boy."

"Uhm…" Clemmy uhmed, raising only one eyebrow, while turning her face towards her husband.

"You see, because he's screaming like a bitch getting fucked in the five cardinal directions and through his nine orifices, while having a major surgery in his cunt without anaesthetics," he continued, lowering his voice to a venomous hiss that vexed every nerve in Clemmy's body, especially with his blonde locks and raspy breath irritating her skin, "my tributes can't settle down, who are thinking something terrible is going to happen to them! So, if you want your little boy to survive as far as the arena, you better go shut his trap, if you would be so kind?" he demanded.

"Huh," countered Critias, suddenly surging to his full height from his reclined position.

"Well Critias? You think you're the owner of this place just because you walked into the arena with a 12? Guess what? It doesn't matter. You're going to shut him up for now, or I'll shut him up," he paused, then added for good measure, "for good."

Critias first forced an incredulous expression onto his visage, as though he had written _I dare you_ on it. He even attempted to stare Poke down, but Poke wasn't having it; Critias had a brutal but cursory 10 seconds trying to force Poke's azure eyes to flicker, and he gladly failed failed. Poke was two inches taller, that being a sufficient excuse to lay his pride down. Then Critias' knees caved and bowed at Poke's feet, sending a ripple of bewilderment through the room, which was swarming with victors, who are technically equals.

"Today," he declared clearly as Poke was rapidly rotating his eyeballs to scan for unwanted attention, which was coming in from all directions, "I bow at your feet, great Poke. I beg you, rid Panem of this abomination, this disgrace that stains the surface of this beautiful nation. I'll even lick your shoes," he said honestly, bending his upper body down for a full prostration, but seeing a pair of sandals, "or sandals, whatever they are, if you would grant me this little wish, Poke!"

"Sometimes you really awe me, Critias, you really do, and other times you just disgust me shitless. I'm starting to feel for your boy, screaming his lungs out for want of love, even at this point where he likely has only a couple of weeks left," he muttered as he tried to depart from the scene, but Critias shifted and blocked him again, with his face smattered against the ground in humble supplication.

Poke simply walked over Critias, stepping over his back.

 _Click_.


End file.
